Booker gave up on standing and sat down on the edge of a planter. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his flask still dangled from his fingers.

“But you’re still not comfortable here.” Booker tilted his head as he studied her. He didn’t know her like the others. She was a whole new person to figure out. “You still want to go home. I get it. If you want to talk about your family or how to grieve for them... well, a little whiskey and I can have that conversation.”

He shook the flask which was more full than not. Booker didn’t drink the huge amount he used to but cold turkey wasn’t possible. He couldn’t just... give it up.

“None of us want to... replace your family. We can’t. Trust me, as much as I care about them, they can’t take that place but it’s a good group.” Booker ran a hand through his hair and smiled a little.